A Matter of Trust
by dumpling47
Summary: Sherlock's jealous ex shows up at Baker Street, and is willing to go to drastic measures to ensure that the detective be with him again. Sherlock/OC; rated M for Johnlock smut and eventual noncon.
1. Confession

_***Ahem* here lies my attempt at smut and what will hopefully be a multi-chaptered fic. We'll see where this ends up going ...**_

* * *

He'd only just entered the room, but by this point, John was positively salivating. There was his best friend - his lover - stretched out on the bed, a sheet wrapped loosely around his frame, leaving little to the imagination. He was like a statue of marble, ridiculously sleek and sexy as hell.

John felt himself go instantly hard. Sherlock was always irresistible, but when stripped of the confinements of logic or science, he was positively glorious. In other words, when he finally decided to give up on the cases or the experiments and relax a little, he was at his best.

"Sherlock," John moaned, his cock completely firm by now, even though nothing much had happened. Sherlock sat up and patted the bed invitingly.

"Come here," he said, his voice a rumbling purr.

John didn't have to be told twice. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's slender frame and allowed their shafts to touch together - but only for a moment. He'd come to learn that prolonging the pleasure was sometimes more worthwhile - teasing himself, even though Sherlock was doing plenty of that to him already.

"How dull of you, John Watson," the detective muttered, reaching a hand down and gripping at John's hard-on. "That's it? A bit of frottage?"

John didn't bother to explain himself, because by this point, Sherlock was massaging the tender area, in slow but steady circles, with long, experienced fingers. John let out a moan and sank down, completely submissive. This was certainly new territory. He was used to being dominant - even with Sherlock. It appeared that his lover wanted to try something new.

"S-Sherlock - " he stammered, his body filling with warmth and even more arousal than before (if that was even possible).

"Shhh," Sherlock murmured, his voice oddly comforting. "I've got you."

It wasn't long before John came. The force of it was so hard that he fell back onto the bed, breathing heavily for some time, his chest heaving. Sherlock, whose own cock was hard, stared down at him from above, a wicked grin on his face.

"You're ruthless," John gasped.

"Really," his partner said, a languidness to his voice that was obviously forced.

John didn't get much time to breathe, because by this point Sherlock was thrusting inside him - hungrily, desperately. John was glad for it - Sherlock deserved a bit of satisfaction, too.

"Oh, _fuck_," the detective moaned, looking a bit delirious. He tried in vain to steady himself, but found himself falling back just as John had, finally resting his head on the doctor's strong chest. "That was fantastic."

It was awhile before either of them could find the breath to speak, but finally, John found words.

"Sherlock - how the hell are you so good at that?"

Sherlock sat up, shrugging his thin shoulders. "You've taught me well, I suppose."

John was suspicious - he had been for a long while, actually - ever since the night had begun. "Seriously, Sherlock," he said. "That was your first time topping. Where the hell did that come from, anyway?"

Sherlock, who'd been smiling cynically, went completely expressionless. "John," he said, his voice catching.

"Er - Sherlock ... ?"

"If you want to know the truth ..." Sherlock said quietly, "You aren't - weren't - my first."

John knew he ought to be surprised by this, but somehow he wasn't. "Well, you're brilliant and absolutely gorgeous," he said. "I'm sure you've had loads of people."

Sherlock shook his head. "There was only one, actually. At Uni."

"Oh. Okay."

"We dated for awhile. Well, not even that, really - more just 'friends with benefits', you know?"

"Yes, okay, Sherlock, it doesn't really matter!" John insisted. "Really, it doesn't. I promise."

"Alright, good." Sherlock ran a hand through his dark curls and bent down to kiss John warmly. "It just - would've been nice to know that I'd saved myself for you, in a way. I'm sorry."

"Are you going sentimental on me?"

"No, of course not." Sherlock went a bit red. "Forget I said anything."

"I already have."

* * *

The topic wasn't brought up again for several months (there was no reason for it to be, really) - that is, until Sherlock received a message on his website. Since that was something that rarely (if ever) happened, considering the success of John's blog, Sherlock pounced on the email as soon as he got the alert.

John, updating his blog at the table, looked up to find Sherlock's eyes bugging out in surprise. Seeing as Sherlock was rarely surprised by anything, John couldn't help but inquire.

"Nothing, nothing," Sherlock said absently, about to close his laptop, but John pounced (just as Sherlock had earlier).

"Show me," he insisted.

Sherlock sighed. "I - it's nothing -"

"_Sherlock_."

"Very well." Sherlock re-opened the computer and pulled up the message.

_Sherlock _[it read]_,_

_Hey, buddy - how are things? I've been busy ever since we graduated but suddenly I've been hearing your name all over the place - so I thought, what the hell? Why not reconnect, like we did back at school? I'd love to talk to you again; I'm sure you're brilliant as ever. My number's below - text me for a drink sometime. Otherwise, who knows? I might just stop on by ..._

_Best regards,_

_Victor Trevor_

"Sounds like a first-rate stalker to me," John said with a laugh. "So, er - you knew this bloke? At Uni?"

"Yes. Actually ..." Sherlock paused. "He was a bit of a hanger-on. Good man, though."

John couldn't understand the reticence on Sherlock's part.

"There's something more?" he asked.

"Yes. Er - do you remember how I was telling you, John, how you weren't my first?"

John's eyes widened. "Holy shit. _Seriously?_"

"Erm ... yes. Victor Trevor was my first. And by the oddest of chances, he wants to reconnect." Sherlock closed the laptop again. "Needless to say, I'm perfectly happy with you, John, and wouldn't trade you for anything. The Victor Trevors of the world can be damned."

John grinned. "Thanks, Sherlock."

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Not the client-ring, the Mycroft-ring or even the 'drugs-bust'-ring. Something entirely different.

Mrs. Hudson could be heard greeting somebody at the door. The person started talking in a loud and clear voice, and Sherlock's posture became even more ramrod-straight than usual.

"What is it?" John asked, eyes widening.

"Deduce, John," Sherlock said, glancing down at his computer.

"Oh." John swallowed, realization dawning. "Shit."


	2. Return

_**Fun fact: Victor Trevor was actually a character in the original Doyle stories - Holmes's close friend at University, in fact. He appears in "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott". ACD would probably roll in his grave if he knew what I did with Mr. Trevor here, though ...**_

* * *

The scary thing about it was, Victor Trevor was just as dashing as he'd been back at school. Sherlock no longer felt the attraction, but when Victor entered the sitting-room, he couldn't deny that the man still held aesthetic appeal. He was of medium-height, with waves of brown hair and a bright smile.

And then, of course, there was the dimple (damn that dimple!).

"Sherlock!" Victor said, grinning broadly. "Well, you certainly look dashing as ever! A bit thin, though. I suppose you're still refusing to eat, then, eh?"

John felt the jealousy rise within him like a tide. Who was this guy, anyway, waltzing right in to 221B and saying that Sherlock looked 'dashing'? That was something only he was allowed to do.

... right?

"Victor," Sherlock said, shaking the man's hand. The guest appeared entirely oblivious to the doctor's presence, and that only irked John all the more. So ... Sherlock had at the very least fucked this guy. Maybe they hadn't actually been in love. Maybe there was still hope ...

"John?" Sherlock's voice called him out of his reverie.

"Yeah?" John said stupidly.

"I said, this is Victor Trevor, from University."

"Yes, I know." John's voice was hard.

Victor's grin, in contrast, was far too light and far too cheery. How had Sherlock been enamored of him, anyway? He seemed positively annoying; surely Sherlock wouldn't have given him the time of day.

"How are you, anyway?" Victor asked. "I know I should've given more notice, but I just couldn't wait! I've been abroad these past few years -"

"So I'd deduced," Sherlock said.

"- and I get home, and whaddya you know? You're something of a legend here! Doesn't surprise me, though. Anyway, I'm recently unattached, and I know this is pretty blunt, but -"

"Sorry, Victor," Sherlock answered. "You may not have figured this, but I am, in fact, dating John, and that won't be changing anytime soon."

That impish grin was slapped clean off Victor's face. He openly scowled at the army doctor, his pretty features suddenly distorted.

"Well, I hope you two are very happy together," he said, glaring at John all the while. "I'm happy as long as you've got someone to love, Sherlock."

"Good." Sherlock, who'd picked up on all the tension in the room, opened the door and ushered Victor out. "A rain check on that drink, perhaps," he said flatly. Victor nodded and exited the room.

"A bit rude of me, I suppose," Sherlock said, shrugging. "But he's an idiot sometimes. One has to be forceful."

"A bit rude of _you?_ Did you see the way he was staring at me?" John cried.

Sherlock threw back his head and let out a hearty laugh. "I'm rather observant, John, in case you hadn't noticed. I've never seen Victor look so envious before; it surprised me."

John snorted. "Not to be a complete berk or anything, Sherlock, but do you suppose that's the last we'll be seeing of him?"

"Hopefully. Sounds as though he's back in England for awhile."

"What do you - _did_ you - see in him, anyway?" John asked. "I honestly wonder."

"Nothing that you don't have - times one hundred," Sherlock said. John blushed like a schoolgirl. "I suppose I admired his intelligence; he was number one in the class at Uni. And he wasn't bad to look at - at least not back then."

"His teeth blinded me," John said scornfully.

"I told him to lay off the whitening strips; I'm surprised he didn't listen," Sherlock said with another laugh. "And, well - look, John, you're absolutely amazing; I don't want to ruin things with you -"

"No, tell me. What else have you got to say?"

"I, well -" Sherlock swallowed. "If we're being honest, he had a bit of a reputation at our school. He was something of a genius in bed, from what I'd heard. And there I was, a pathetic little virgin who wanted to at least try having sex - if only for myself. I found I enjoyed it - he didn't make me feel stupid, or anything - and so we dated for awhile. Or, rather, we were 'fuck-buddies'." Sherlock said the last two words very sarcastically. "I'm ashamed of it. I wish I'd waited for you, I honestly do."

"What if someone better comes along? Someone better than me?" John felt tears stinging his eyes.

Sherlock, desperate that John should not be sad, bent down at kissed his partner on the mouth, his lips soft but firm. "That will never happen, John, I swear it. How could anyone be better than you? It's an impossibility."

John wiped at his eyes, a bit embarrassed that he'd been so open about his jealousy. "Right, then."

"I love you, John. Some weasel from University isn't going to change that."

"Good."

* * *

Things didn't end there, though. Sherlock went off to take a shower and came out to find exactly twenty-nine new texts, all within the past half hour. He checked his phone and found they were from an unknown number, but the identity of the sender was clear as day.

_Victor_. Of course.

He needn't have put his initials after every text; it would have been obvious either way. Each message became more and more inappropriate; even if he hadn't been dating John, Victor was pushing his limits. It was sad, really, that a thirty-two year old man was acting so juvenile.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was disturbed. He looked up at John, whose back was facing him and was stiffer than ever. He'd at least heard the texts, then. Unsurprising; if Sherlock Holmes had received that many texts in such a short period of time, it was either Irene Adler or a crazed fan.

John had probably deduced it was Victor, then.

"My number's on the website," Sherlock said to John's back. "I'll take it down, if you want, at least for now. Change it, or something."

"No, that wouldn't be good for business," John moped. "He likes you, you probably like him. What's it to me if he's got your number?"

"Why are you acting like this?" Sherlock demanded. "I've had loads of stalkers before. I'll tell him to sod off. He's being entirely immature, especially since I already have a boyfriend."

"Yeah, but for how long?" John snapped, spinning around. He immediately softened. "Oh, God - Sherlock, I'm sorry - I'm screwing this up. It's just - this isn't just some fan of yours, okay? This is a guy you shagged ten years before you even knew me!"

Sherlock's lip quivered. "And he's back, with a vengeance. I swear, John, I'd never cheat on you. If he harasses me anymore, I'll take care of him, I swear. Or, rather, call the police," he added, upon observing John's disapproving look.

"Okay." John's brows furrowed momentarily, but he eventually got up and pecked Sherlock on the cheek. "I'm sorry, love," he said quietly. "I'm trying really hard not to be a complete dick about that guy. I just love you, okay? And I want you to be happy, with whoever makes you feel that way. I just - well - I was just really hoping the person to make you happy was me."

"And it _is_ you," Sherlock said. "How could you doubt me, John?"

"I can't," John said, sounding more confident. "I never could."

"I have a few experiments to run," his partner said, "But I promise you, John, we'll make love tonight. It'll be better than it ever was before. I'll show you that Victor Trevor can go to hell, for all I care."

John's legs had gone completely wobbly, and he thought he might faint. Sherlock was just so ridiculously attractive, especially when he made proclamations like that.

The moment was ruined, however, by the ringing of Sherlock's phone.

"Damn," Sherlock muttered. "It's him again."

"Tell him to get lost," John said.

Sherlock had pressed 'talk' with the intention of doing so when a desperate voice began to speak.

"Oh, God," Victor gasped, "Sherlock - I just - we need to talk. The more I hear about you, and all you've done, the more I'm enamored. I want - us - to happen again. Please, I'm begging you."

"Victor, this is entirely inappropriate," Sherlock said, trying to remain calm. "I have a boyfriend."

There was a muffled noise from the end of the phone. A sob?

"I knew I was asking too much," Victor cried. "I'm sorry, I really am. I just - I just -"

Sherlock ended the call. "Fucking arse," he grumbled. "Sorry, John. Where were we? Oh, right. You know what? Sod the experiments, or whatever the bloody hell I had planned. I need you, right now."

That husky voice was nearly enough to make John come in his pants. "I don't know if I can make it upstairs ..." he gasped.

"Don't worry. I'll guide you."

And in that moment, John was satisfied that they'd heard the last of Victor Trevor. All he could focus on was Sherlock, and his utter beauty, and everything else that came along with him.

It never even occurred to him that Victor wasn't finished - not yet.


	3. Trapped

_**Aaand ... here's where the trigger warning comes in. I've scared myself a bit, actually - this started off smutty and took a turn for the dark ... O.o**_

* * *

Sherlock had led John up to the room with the intention of making love to him - to be a dom, once again - but in that period of time, John appeared to have lost his sea legs. He was strong, capable John Watson again, determined to show Sherlock who was boss.

He shoved Sherlock back into the bed, fighting against the shiver that coursed through him. If Sherlock saw him vulnerable, he'd have to give up the act and let his partner top. And that just wasn't going to happen; not tonight.

He took Sherlock's wrists, easing him back down onto the bed and glancing down at his lover's pulsating cock. Sherlock was a being of repressed desire, except for that one object - the only piece of anatomy that truly betrayed him.

"This - wasn't the plan -" Sherlock said shakily, mock-fighting against John's grip.

"Doesn't matter," John said with a smile. "When have we ever done anything according to plan, anyway?"

By then he'd teased Sherlock enough; it was time to get serious. He went down, lube as well as logic tossed to the winds ...

... but nothing actually got executed, because Sherlock's phone had begun to buzz, loudly, on the side-table.

"Aw, fuck," John muttered, as the phone shook like mad. "I thought you would've turned that thing off? Especially seeing as it's probably -"

Sherlock flopped back down against the pillows. "I'm really getting sick of him," he said, glaring at the vibrating phone. "I swear I turned it off, anyway. And the buzzer's awfully loud ..."

"You're not suggesting that he hacked your phone?"

"It wouldn't be the first time it's happened. Besides, he _was_ rather brilliant."

"Brilliant and completely insane. You seem to be attracting a particular type, Sherlock."

Sherlock knew it was supposed to be a joke, but he couldn't muster up the energy to laugh. "I could block his number," he said, "But I have a feeling he'd use a different one every time."

"Sure we can't call upon drastic measures?" John asked. "Get the British Government involved, perhaps?"

Sherlock stared at John with a look of complete horror on his face. "Tell Mycroft about a man I shagged? John Watson, you've gone completely mental."

"Anyway, I'm annoyed," John muttered, curling up next to his friend. "I was getting pretty heated, and he went and ruined it all!"

The detective sighed, wrapping his arms around John's solid frame. "At least he's only been calling," he muttered. "And texting, I suppose. It could be a lot worse."

"Don't say that," John said. "You'll jinx it."

"Damn."

It was five whole minutes before the phone stopped ringing; it might've been sooner, but Sherlock couldn't seem to turn the bloody thing off.

* * *

Sherlock should've known better than to go out alone. He couldn't help himself, though - he just needed to _think_, as was usually the case. As in, without any distractions. Without even John. He needed to feel the night air slapping against his face, so that he didn't have to think so much about how what should've been some really great sex had been completely interrupted.

Maybe it was stupid of him, walking down this dark alley in the middle of the night. He knew he could take care of himself, though, if anything happened. Not that anything would, of course.

... or so he'd thought, until a heavy object hit him on the back of the head, and he was knocked out cold.

* * *

Sherlock blinked awake into the dimness of ... wherever the hell he was. He couldn't seem to deduce much about the area; he probably had a mild concussion, after all. All he knew was that he was unbearably warm.

"A bit stuffy in here, isn't it?" Victor's voice wafted down from above. "Here, let me take that coat off for you. Notice I didn't tie you up. Didn't think you'd be able to move, anyway."

Sherlock let out a small groan as Victor pulled his Belstaff away. And not just that, either. He felt his shirt being slowly unbuttoned, found his gaze traveling up to Victor's bright smile ...

"I'm not some sort of psychopath, you know," Victor insisted, running his hands along Sherlock's strong chest. His pupils were eerily dilated, in a way Sherlock had never seen before - not even all those years ago. "I've just been rather enamored of you lately, and you know what? I think we'd make a far better couple than you and that _John_ would."

"Fuck off," Sherlock said furiously, leaning back but trying not to rest his head too heavily on the ground.

"Touchy, aren't we?" Victor said with a smile. There was that godforsaken dimple again, too! "I took measures to ensure that nobody would find us here. All I'm asking, Sherlock, is your consent for just this one night. I swear that's all I want."

"Ooh, boy, you want my consent?" Sherlock said, finding his acid tongue in the midst of all this insanity. "After you knocked me out in the alley? How thoughtful of you."

"Don't be like that, Sherlock," Victor begged. "We had something back at Uni - or don't you remember? We were perfect for each other. Brilliant, beautiful, both secretly desired -"

"But you've recently gone insane," Sherlock said, attempting to sit up. "That's it, isn't it? You're fucking mental. I don't suppose you were abroad at some loony bin, were you? They've only just released you?"

"Still a little shit, aren't we," Victor said, stroking his bare chin with one hand and shoving Sherlock back down with another. "Never liked that about you. For all your good qualities, you could be a real prick sometimes."

Sherlock had a hard time getting past the pounding in his head, but he could think clearly enough to wonder why the hell he'd ever wanted Victor Trevor to be his first. No, scratch that - Victor had once been very appealing. Since then, he'd appeared to have descended into madness.

"What happened to you, anyway?" Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth - and still through all that pounding. He knew he was fairly helpless, and the throbbing wasn't allowing him to think. He'd have to distract Victor for the time being, at least until he could come up with something.

"I was in America, if you want to know the truth," the man answered, his smile suddenly fading, his childlike dimple gone. "Getting fucked over by the man I thought I loved. He looked quite a lot like you, actually."

"So, what? You're taking out your frustrations on me?" Sherlock said snidely.

"Nothing of the kind. I thought I might've loved you, Sherlock - hell, I did, at one point. I truly did. And then you went and got it on with _John_ ..."

"This isn't about John," Sherlock said. "You're - you're completely mad. You're not the same man I remember from Uni."

"You're just figuring that out?" Victor snarled, standing and kicking Sherlock hard in the chest. Sherlock, momentarily startled, had the wind knocked out of him, leaving him in worse shape than ever. He tried to stand, but Victor only shoved him down again.

"Don't even try," he said. He paused for a moment, examining the man on the floor before him. "You know something I never liked much about you, Sherlock? You were always such a prude. Always had to have things your way. But that's not how it's gonna be this time." He chuckled, the sound echoing off the cellar(?) walls. "I'm going to have my way with you, for once."

Sherlock didn't pretend to understand Victor's newfound insanity - not that it needed justification. The point was, there was something very wrong with the man, and he had Sherlock in this cellar or basement or whatever the hell it was, with the intention of ...

Sherlock swallowed back what might've been a sob. For the first time in a long time, he was truly terrified. Everything had escalated so quickly, and chances were, Victor Trevor was going to rape him and possibly murder him, right there. It wasn't that he was scared of death, really; it just seemed such a terrible way to go. Besides that, he didn't want to die as the victim. He had to at least fight back.

He swung out at Victor, but the man was quick on his feet - and besides, the room was rather dark. Victor took advantage of these two things and tore Sherlock's shirt away, then set upon unbuttoning his trousers. Sherlock kicked out furiously, but Victor kicked back, sending Sherlock sprawling.

That kick had been hard - he wondered if he'd broken something.

"Don't move," Victor growled, tearing the trousers clean off and shoving Sherlock over onto his stomach, leaving his bare bum exposed. The detective's eyes pricked with embarrassed tears. He was stronger than this; he'd taken out a man twice his breadth once. So why was Victor getting the best of him?

Victor made a sort of strangled, aroused noise. "You're so beautiful," he said wickedly, as Sherlock felt the shaft penetrate from behind, much too forcefully. "I'll bet _John_ could never give you this sort of satisfaction."

"I hate you," Sherlock moaned, his chest heaving. He couldn't seem to cry out.

Victor evidently didn't like that response, because he was quick to deliver another blow to the back of the head. Sherlock blacked out, and didn't resurface for a long time.


	4. Rescue

_**Of course John isn't just gonna sit around while Sherlock's in trouble!**_

* * *

John let out a long string of expletives. Sherlock hadn't come back in hours, and not even he spent that much time out on the dangerous London streets. He had to be in some sort of trouble.

John saw only one option - to phone Mycroft. The government official had those blasted cameras up all over London - surely he'd know something?

"I've got a trace on him up till - oh, God. Oh, _God_." Mycroft let out his own string of swear words from the end of the line. "John, you're not going to like this."

"Tell me. Jesus Christ, Mycroft, tell me!"

"Sherlock was in an alley, and got hit in the back of the head - a blunt object; I can't quite make it out - and was dragged into a van - white, nondescript." The line went quiet for some time, and all that could be heard were the noises of both men quietly panicking.

"No, look - we need to keep it together," the elder Holmes said. "I can trace the car - hopefully. Yes, alright ... it dropped them off in an abandoned complex - not too far from Pall Mall, actually. I'll text you the specifics, alright? God - how was I not made aware of this sooner? They're supposed to have tabs on Sherlock at all times ..."

"Nevermind that!" John wailed, running to the drawer and pulling out his gun. "We're going after that bastard."

"I don't suppose you have any idea who it was?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah, this psychopath who's been following Sherlock around lately, I'm almost positive of it. He started sending weird texts at first, but things got bad. Really bad. Bloody hell ..." John straightened his shoulders and forced himself to keep a clear head. His thoughts became blunt: Sherlock's in trouble. I must save him. I must get to Victor Trevor and kill him before anything worse can happen ...

Little did he know that even if he'd left right at that moment, he still wouldn't have been fast enough.

* * *

Sherlock regained consciousness to find Victor standing in the corner of the room, glaring at him.

"You're no fun when you're out cold," the man said, frowning deeply.

Sherlock didn't bother responding - he couldn't, anyway. His throat was too dry. Besides that, he could feel several cracked ribs and a soreness just about everywhere ... especially between his legs. He found himself crying silently, thanking a god he didn't believe in for sparing his life. Wordlessly, of course.

All the while, he kept wishing that John would come. He didn't want his partner to find him like this, but he knew he needed help, and fast. He didn't want to know what else Victor had in store, for surely it would be much worse.

"I don't know if I'd enjoy myself any more with you," Victor admitted. "You're all dirty and ugly now. Besides, I've had my fun. Time to go!"

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling himself drifting off again, just as Victor was exiting the room. Before he could leave, however, the door was slammed inwards, sending Victor jumping back.

"Police!" a gruff voice shouted. "Hands up!"

Sherlock caught a glimpse of several uniformed officers, and, to his surprise, Lestrade, his brother ... and John. The doctor pointed his gun at Victor's head.

"Don't you fucking move," he barked, "Or I swear to God I'll blow your head off."

Sherlock vaguely remembered Victor saying something about how he'd "done his worst" in the time John hadn't been there. This was absolutely the last straw - before Sherlock could fully process what was happening, John had taken hold of the evildoer, proceeding to beat the living shit out of him. Victor, completely startled by the smaller man's ferocity, was slammed to the ground, completely unable to fight back. The funny thing was, no one felt the need to stop John. Everyone obviously understood the sheer horror of the situation, then.

Sherlock didn't remember anything after that. His head fell back and he blacked out again.

* * *

He woke up in a hospital bed with John sobbing bitterly over him. His torso was wrapped in a cast, and several of his fingers were bandaged. His head hurt like hell.

"Mild concussion, three fractured ribs, four very bruised fingers," John listed. "That's the medical analysis, anyway. I don't suppose you remember anything else?"

Sherlock's eyes grew wide and fearful. "John," he whispered, his voice quivering. "I - I was so scared you wouldn't come."

"Thank your brother," John said, stepping closer to the bed and touching a hand to Sherlock's bruised arm. Sherlock noticed that both his lover's fists were bruised, and smiled inwardly. "I never thought I'd be grateful for his cameras, but this is definitely an exception." He paused. "Sherlock - we found you knocked out in that complex with that Trevor bastard standing nearby, grinning like a maniac. Please tell me I'm not jumping to conclusions when I say -"

"It happened," Sherlock said, his voice almost imperceptible. "He forced himself on me."

"He raped you," John said bluntly.

"Yes."

John couldn't seem to stop crying as he gazed down at the shell of his friend in the hospital bed. Sherlock Holmes, so strong, so capable of taking care of himself, had been raped by an obsessive ex. He examined his lover's face carefully - there were dark circles under his eyes; his features seemed sharper than ever - and not in a good way. He looked far too vulnerable, and that's what he was, really. It was absolutely jarring.

John bent down, careful of Sherlock's injuries, and kissed him on the cheek.

"You'd never hurt me, would you, John?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John gasped. "God - Sherlock - of course not! I'd never, ever -"

"It's just that - there was a time I might've taken Victor at his word if he'd said the same."

"You can't honestly be saying you think I'd -"

Sherlock swallowed. "No, of course not, John - but you understand why I'm ... why I'm afraid?"

"Yes ... of course." John swallowed himself. "Sherlock, when have I ever gone against my word? I'm so sorry you're afraid. You have every right to be. What happened tonight was traumatizing - for many of us, but especially for you. I just - I just ..." John broke down completely, his strong facade be damned. Sherlock's lip quivered some more, and he at last let out a strangled cry, wrapping his weak arms around John - _his_ John, the man who'd never do anything to hurt him. Somehow, he was positive of that fact, in a way he'd never truly been with Victor, even back at Uni. And that knowledge definitely made things better.

Several doctors and nurses rushed in, Mycroft and Lestrade following. John was tempted to tell everyone to stop crowding, but he thought better of it. He liked to think he knew what Sherlock wanted, but sometimes he wasn't always so sure.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade said, while Mycroft stood grimly by. "Sherlock - I know you're not alright, so I won't even ask, but - you should know - we've got Victor in custody. That bastard'll get what's coming to him; I can guarantee you that. I thought you should know. John already gave him a taste of what's to come, if you can remember."

Sherlock nodded, remembering - if only slightly.

"Tell him the rest, Inspector," Mycroft suggested.

"Er - Victor Trevor is - was, rather - at the center of a criminal league in America," Lestrade said. "We dug up his files - all aliases, but the pictures were telltale. We're able to peg him for a whole lot - dozens of rape cases, actually. I'm not trivializing your condition, I swear, it's just - well, he went a bit loony after some marriage difficulties. Wasn't the same afterward. Started getting involved with the wrong crowd, obviously."

"I - I -" Sherlock couldn't find the words.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"I dated him," Sherlock said, feeling as though he wasn't making any sense. "I - I can't even believe it."

"Sherlock," John said gently, taking his lover's hand. "You don't have to say any more." The detective was already vulnerable; he needed to be careful what he said in front of his brother and the DI.

"I dated him, and he went and did that," Sherlock continued anyway, his face blanching. "And not just to me. I'll kill him, I swear I will."

The more Sherlock thought about it, the more furious he became - which was a perfectly normal reaction, but somehow, he'd thought himself above such a response. He didn't know why; maybe it was pride. Point being, sending Victor to prison was nowhere near good enough. Sherlock wanted to seek his vengeance in the worst way possible.

* * *

There was a trial, naturally, where Victor (or 'Trevor', as he'd been attempting to call him now - it was less personal) had been sentenced to life in prison for numerous crimes. It still didn't seem good enough, knowing that the man was alive, but there wasn't really much he could do.

Sherlock didn't even care that John and the others had seen him in such a state, really. They were his family, in a sense; it didn't matter, as long as the main facts of the violation weren't disclosed to the public. There was only so much his sense of privacy would allow.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street within the fortnight, but he was still rather incapacitated. He spent most of his days in boredom, propped up on the sofa while John attended to him. It didn't matter much, though - he knew deep down that he needed to recover, and probably wouldn't be running about London for awhile. The sooner he accepted such facts, the better.

Even after his casts were long off, he still had a hard time talking about things. Even with John. The case was nearly wrapped up, though the occasional black mark against Trevor's name continued to pop up. It's not as though it changed much - there was already plenty of red in his ledger.

Anyway, things with John were a bit awkward. They hadn't made love in ages, and not just due to Sherlock's fragile condition. It really had a lot to do with trust.

Sherlock trusted John, of course, but he found himself scared most of the time. He didn't want to go far in the bedroom, or go anywhere at all, really. Trevor had damaged him beyond repair, and the idea that John would be touching him in the same areas was nothing short of terrifying.

Eventually, Sherlock opened up about it. John was understanding, as always. He didn't know what he'd been expecting; of course John was there to sympathize.

"I love you so much, Sherlock, and I just want to show you that," he said one evening, while Sherlock lay curled up on his side, in his customary position. "I understand if you're not ready for a long while, though."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock sat up and flexed his fingers (finally free of the bandages!). "I don't know why I'm so - so afraid, John."

"Christ, Sherlock, you were _raped_."

"And I'm not saying I should be over it, but I thought ... I thought I'd be stronger than this."

"What happened to you is traumatizing, even for the strongest of people. Especially since it came from someone you once trusted."

"I don't doubt you, though, John," Sherlock promised, standing for the first time all day and wrapping his arms around the shorter man. "Not for a second."

"Good. I'm glad."

"I want to be with you tonight," Sherlock said suddenly. "Even if we're not doing much. I just want to love you - and to prove to myself that I'm not scared."

"Wow." John buried his head in the crook of Sherlock's arm, completely in awe. "Sherlock Holmes, you are without a doubt the bravest man I know."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that. His heart swelled at the compliment, though, and for the fact that John believed in him. Somehow, that was enough.


	5. Safe

_**Special thanks to **_**starrysummernights**_** for such wonderful suggestions, especially since I was having a hard time with this chapter in particular.**_

_**By the way, this is the last chapter. Thanks so much for reading :)**_

* * *

They decided to make love that night, for the first time in over a month.

John could only hope Sherlock was ready enough.

He didn't _seem_ fearful, anyway. He seemed like Sherlock - cool, calm, confident - that is, until John began slowly undressing him. The way John was touching his chest was nothing like the way Victor once had, and yet, Sherlock couldn't help but make the connection. He let out a small whimper.

"Sherlock," John said gently, "This isn't about me tonight, I swear. We'll go as far as you want."

Sherlock nodded, deciding to put up an act - the act of being up-to-par again, even though John would undoubtedly see through it. He was usually quite the actor, but he wasn't used to being anything but honest with John.

Luckily for him, John was perceptive as well as sympathetic.

"Sherlock -" he warned. "If I have you do this when you're not ready, I'm no better than Trevor. And I'm better than that, I promise. I'm no good, I know that, but I'm not going to -"

"John." Sherlock silenced his lover with a tentative kiss. "I want this. I promise." He paused, searching for words. "Just touching, though. I don't want any penetration."

John nodded. "I understand completely." And he truly did.

John nodded, feeling horribly self-conscious all the while, for fear that despite Sherlock's reassurance, he was going too far. He so desperately did not want to end up like Trevor. It seemed to be all he could think about ...

... but only for a while, though. After some time, he forgot Trevor entirely and focused on solely on expressing his love. Sherlock's pleasure was key; he was obviously already enjoying himself, though, judging by the strength of his hard-on. John palmed the erection gently, and Sherlock let out an uninhibited moan.

"J-John," he gasped.

John had to admit, though, he wasn't too surprised. Sherlock had asked for this, after all, and seeing as they hadn't had sex in so long, well ... he was bound to be aroused easily.

John pressed in close, allowing their erections to touch, feeling Sherlock's hips buck up against him. He felt a surge of electricity course through his body as Sherlock responded to every touch. He caught sight of that dreamy, lopsided smile Sherlock always had while they were fooling around, and found himself a bit surprised. For some reason, he hadn't been expecting such a reaction, and found himself infinitely glad for it.

John reached out a hand for Sherlock's bum, catching hold and rubbing at the soft flesh with one hand and running the other hand through Sherlock's dark curls. He was in the process of doing this when he felt a hand take hold of his own shaft, massaging it gently.

John let out a shaky breath as his head fell back, closing his eyes and sinking into Sherlock's touch. He certainly hadn't been expecting his lover to go this far - at least not yet. But it was he that was initiating, and that helped John feel infinitely more reassured.

He knew that Sherlock loved it when he played with his hair, so he continued to do so as he reached a hand back down below, tuning in to Sherlock's nonverbal reactions and stroking in the ways he seemed to enjoy most. The touches became faster, more urgent ...

Sherlock's body went very stiff, and he let out a loud gasp as he came, followed by a shuddering sigh as his body slackened. John held fast, prolonging the moment for as long as possible. After it seemed that neither party could take any more, John collapsed on his side, panting heavily.

Only then did John start thinking of Trevor again (why couldn't the bastard just leave him - or, rather, both of them - alone!?). As he observed his friend, his eyes closed, his full lips parted in a combination of a gasp and a smile, he couldn't help but silently congratulate himself. Not that he'd won at something - but for the fact that he'd been able to make Sherlock so happy, when he had so many reasons to be the exact opposite.

Sherlock's piercing green eyes opened, meeting his own. "Come here, John," he said between breaths, reaching out a long arm. John fell into the embrace, lying down against Sherlock's strong chest and listening to his pounding heart. They stayed that way for a long while, and John felt the beating slow ... though it certainly took some time.

He knew he could've stayed in that moment forever, knowing for a fact that Sherlock felt the same way.

* * *

Much later, in the wee hours of the morning, John took Sherlock's face in my hands and kissed him deeply, showing him just how much he loved him, before saying: "What happened to you, Sherlock - that's never going to happen again. Not on my watch."

Sherlock didn't say anything at first, but after some moments he broke out into a grateful smile. "Thank you, John. Thank you so much."

Sometimes it unnerved John, seeing Sherlock display such emotion, seeing him look upon him with such gratitude. It was startling, but it was infinitely appreciated, in the end. John knew that when the time was right, Sherlock would probably go back to being his normal self, but it was not yet that time.

"C'mere, you," John murmured, pulling Sherlock even closer. "I love you so much, you know that?"

"I know, John. Like I said, thank you."

John fell asleep, happy that things had worked out.

* * *

_"I love you, Sherlock. So much."_

_A much younger Victor Trevor massaged the inside of Sherlock's leg, and the latter let out a small moan. They were back at Uni, and really ought to have been studying. Not that it really mattered, though - they were number one and two in the class, respectively. They could afford to be careless._

_"I never would've thought we'd end up together," Victor admitted. "You were always a bit aloof, you know? I never thought you'd have anybody, much less me."_

_"I felt the same way about you," Sherlock admitted, squirming excitedly as Victor worked his hand up further, towards the bulge in his tight trousers._

_Things took an unexpected turn, though - Victor was suddenly on top of him, shoving the trousers in question down to his ankles, thrusting in deep ..._

_"Victor - stop!" Sherlock demanded, attempting to pull away ... but Victor had always been stronger ..._

* * *

Sherlock woke up with his hair plastered to his forehead, a cold sweat icy on his neck. John was holding him, caressing him gently.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?" he asked. He knew about the dreams (they'd been recurring ever since that night in hospital), but he always asked. It was the least he could do.

"I was having a dream about, well ... you know. At University. It was a real memory, the dream - but then things got distorted. He was on top of me, like he was in that complex ..."

"Oh, Sherlock." John smoothed his lover's tangled curls from his forehead. "It was just a nightmare, love. Trevor's locked away. He can't hurt you again."

"Thank God for that," Sherlock murmured, sinking back into the bed. "You know, John - I was thinking."

"Unsurprising," John said, attempting a small joke.

Sherlock smiled weakly. "No, I mean - about us. You know how you said that I could trust you? Well, you can trust me, too. I don't know if that matters much to you, but, well - I thought it might."

"Of _course_ it matters!" John exclaimed, running his lips tantalizingly over Sherlock's pale neck. The detective felt his limbs turn to jam - thanks to what John was saying as well as doing. "It means a lot, Sherlock, really. Thank you."

They curled up together and fell back asleep. Something in Sherlock's mind must have clicked - changed, somehow - because from then on, he never had a single nightmare about Trevor. The memory still haunted him by day sometimes, but he was no longer tormented by it at night.

There was some solace in that, wasn't there?

* * *

The road to recovery was the farthest thing from easy, even (though maybe especially) for Sherlock and John. There were a lot of loose ends that still needed tying. There _was_ a rumor going around about Victor Trevor taking quite the beating in prison, and that brought relief for awhile, but it still didn't do much to repair the damage that had been inflicted. There were countless victims out there still, wanting vengeance in their own way. In other words, they'd all still had their share of terror. That was something that couldn't be remedied easily, especially since not everyone was fortunate enough to have their own personal John Watson by their side.

John was immensely helpful in the recovery process. Eventually (albeit after many weeks), Sherlock was back to his cool, condescending self, and John found himself oddly grateful for it. It showed that things were finally returning to normal.

One thing was definitely different, though - or, no, perhaps it wasn't. They'd established that they could both trust each other, but hadn't they affirmed that nonverbally? Nonetheless, it was nice to know that they'd been able to express their love and faith in each other out loud. It was reassuring, if anything.

For the most part, things had ended well, in the midst of such horrible circumstances. Sherlock and John had each other, they were safe, and they had infinite confidence in one another.

Considering the situation, it all could've ended much worse. They were both very happy that that hadn't been the case.


End file.
